


The BoyKing of Hell and his brother

by tigriswolf



Series: Alternate Universe [302]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), Gen, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-16 04:14:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10563489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/pseuds/tigriswolf
Summary: Various fics I've written where Sam becomes the BoyKing of Hell instead of an angel's vessel.





	1. the left hand sings the right hand back to sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Title: the left hand sings the right hand back to sleep  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Notes: title from Richard Siken

Sam’s never beaten his brother in a physical fight in twenty-five years. He’s run rings around Dean with words, but fists against fists, knives, staffs—he’s always lost, even when Dean wasn’t trying. He’s put Dean in the dirt a handful of times, but Dean still took him down, too, and then finished the fight with ease.

“Do you have what it takes?” Ruby asks. “He can’t stop us, Sam. You know that. It’s best for everyone if he just…” 

“Shut up,” Sam says. He stares down at Dean, in one of his rare naps. He hardly sleeps since he’s come back from Hell. “I don’t exorcise them to the Pit, do I?” Dean looks weary. Sam glances up to catch Ruby’s surprised expression. “The demons,” he elaborates. “I’m not sending them back to Hell, I’m killing them.” 

The knife she gave him, the knife that destroys demons, is in his hand. She wants him to kill Dean. For the good of the world, because he’ll try to stop them. 

It’ll prove he means it, wants to take out all of Hell’s top tier if he can kill Dean. What Dean did in Hell… he’s not Dean anymore. 

Except that he’s never been Dean more. Dean’s a survivor. He always has been.

“Sam,” Ruby hisses. “Your army won’t follow you if don’t kill him. You know that.”

Sam’s never once been able to beat Dean, except that one time he was possessed, and Dean wasn’t even fighting.

He spins and buries the knife in Ruby’s neck, watching dispassionately as she dies. 

Dean’s his brother. And they’ll rule side by side, or he won’t rule at all.


	2. untitled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _Some ridiculously decadent Sam/Dean...involving drunkeness and Dean in nothing but his socks_. I managed Dean in his socks, and that’s about it. 
> 
> Warnings for dark!boys and AUness.

They kick down the door when he’s got nothing but socks on and don’t let him get dressed, just wrap a coat around him, cuff him, and shove him into a squad car. 

Sam’s out getting a paper, and if he’s smart, he’ll leave town. 

Dean knows better, though.

.

They take his picture and stick him in an interrogation room, and he’s still only wearing that damned coat and his socks. He’d find it a bit amusing, if the room weren’t fucking _freezing_. 

Both his hands are handcuffed at the wrist to the table _and_ the chair, and his ankles are shackled together. Thankfully, the socks are just long enough to keep the cold metal from touching his skin. 

He’d think it were overkill, if he didn’t know himself better.

.

He’s gotten to five thousand and twelve in Latin by the time the detective comes in, armed with photographs and witness statements. 

“You know why you’re here?” he asks, sitting down across the table and spreading the pictures out. 

Dean flicks at glance at them. “’cause you think I’m a bad guy?”

The detective doesn’t smile. “I’m Agent Henriksen,” he says. “And you’re going away for a long time. This is just a formality.” 

Meeting Henriksen’s eyes, Dean smirks. “If you say so.”

.

They put him in a cell, hands cuffed together, still only in the coat and socks. There’s a guard on both sides of the hallway door, hand on the gun at his hip. 

Dean smiles, watching. He waits, counting the time, and when the explosion rocks the building, he chuckles. 

Twenty minutes. That’s a new record for Sammy. 

Dean just settles back on the cot, lounging without a care in the world, and watches his baby brother burn it down.


	3. inherit the kingdom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: inherit the kingdom  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun.  
> Warnings: future!fic  
> Pairings: Dean/Sam  
> Rating: PG13  
> Wordcount: 470  
> Point of view: third  
> Notes: for the sammessiahficathon, to the prompt _Sam is the Antichrist, right? It's something you're born with, in the genes. And Dean shares 50% of those genes…_

Skin-to-skin, they sleep, limbs tangled, curled possessively around each other. There are no masks between them now, as they breathe in tandem. There is just them, against the world. 

There is just them, huddled together with no blanket, beneath the glorious sky.

.

John failed to mention a major part of the secret, when he whispered what must be in Dean’s ear. 

It was easily done, though, since everyone forgot. Mary, too.

.

Sam shivers, nuzzles into Dean’s chest for warmth. Dean moves with him, pulling him closer. He’d pull Sam all the way in, if he could, the better to protect his most precious possession. 

Dean’s eyelids flicker open, arms wrapped around Sam, hand cupping his skull, fingers threaded by Sam’s hair. 

They’re coming. Soon. He should wake Sam, get him moving. But Sam sleeps so rarely, now, guilt eating away at him.

Dean has no regret.

.

Gordon Walker thought he knew something. He did, but not everything. Not enough.

.

“Sammy,” he whispers, gently kissing Sam’s neck. “Time to get up. We gotta go.” 

Sam mumbles, burying his face in Dean’s shoulder. 

Dean smiles and rolls them over, straddling Sam. “Get up, little brother,” he says. “We gotta go now. We can sleep more later.” 

He stands, hunting for his pants in the dark. Sam stretches, yawns, watches. “Who is it?” he asks, rising to his feet.

“Bobby,” Dean answers. 

. 

It’s in the blood, come the end. Azazel was a fool, if he thought to have one without the other.

.

They go, striding together across the land, hiding in the air and rain, laughing and talking about the good old days, before. 

Not that they’d trade anything away.

.

When Sam turned, it was somewhat anti-climatic. There was no flash of lightning, no rumble of thunder, no trembling of the Earth beneath his feet. 

It was a splatter of blood from a woman anointing his face, a woman who had once been his friend. 

“Sam,” Dean had yelled, grabbing his arm, pulling him out the door. “Damnit, man, move.”

And that was that.

.

They leave no trail, no sign of their passing. They only kill what gets in their way, as they skirt civilization.

They do not follow a set path, but go where they will, walking in directions that catch their fancy.

They are hunted for what they are, for what they used to be. They will only kill their hunters if their one-time friends get too close.

. 

There was no question of Dean turning. He simply went with his brother, same as he’d always done.

Sam does not want to end the world; there would be no fun in that. And Dean doesn’t care what happens, so long as he’s with Sammy.

.

They roam, like they did before. They live. They lie side-by-side, close as they can be, and breathe.


	4. if it’s the end of the world, it must be necessary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: if it’s the end of the world, it must be necessary  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Anne Sexton.   
> Warnings: AUish  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 100  
> Point of view: third

_He's the shadows, Dean_ , Ananchel—Anna—says softly, trying to convince him of something he will never believe. _And you're the light._

 _It doesn't matter what you tell me_ , Dean replies. _He's my brother. I'll die for him. I already have, and I’ll do it again, no matter what he is or what he’s done._

Her eyes are so sad, her hands so gentle as she cups his face in her palms. _You damn the world this way_ , she whispers. _There’s still time._

 _No_ , he corrects her, placing his hands over hers. _There isn’t. You lost when he was born._


	5. O fairest of creation, last and best of all God’s works

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: O fairest of creation, last and best of all God’s works  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Milton.  
> Warnings: spoilers for aired season four  
> Pairings: none stated  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 666  
> Point of view: third

Angels are different from demons. They ask before crawling in and walking around as a sack of flesh. They heal the body before leaving. They send the vessel to sleep and play sweet dreams to keep the mind content. 

Demons, though, they rape and they pillage, they take what is not offered and give nothing in return. The body is broken when they leave, bloody inside and out. They keep the host awake when they wish, a torment of freedom just out of reach and the knowledge of what their body is doing.

Sam remembers how Azazel’s daughter felt, slick and slimy, slithering up in him and making him do things he'd only ever had nightmares about. He remembers—can't forget—how Dean's face broke beneath his fist. How Jo trembled; how Steve Wandell's blood sprayed on his face, coated his hands. 

A demon is following him around, coming when he calls, trying to teach him how to use the power deep in his sinew and grooming him to be a king. She lies to him, but she loves him, and he will never trust her because she swore she could show him how to save Dean and Dean still went to Hell.

It took an angel to get him out, when demons and demon-blood-power failed. It took an angel, and now that angel is trying to take Dean.

 _It could save him_ , Castiel pleads, vessel’s eyes wide and innocent. 

_It would kill him_ , Sam replies. _And I say no._

Angels are different from demons. They ask permission. And if denied, they just keep asking. They don’t take. 

_This is foolish_ , Uriel snarls, striding up to Sam, glaring at him. _Your brother is the vessel, chosen by God, saved from Hell. We will do what needs to be done, and no little mudmonkey with delusions of grandeur will halt the Lord’s will!_

Sam’s lips curl. 

Angels are different, yes—they are holy and beautiful. But they can still die. Sam says, _If you try, I will turn you to dust._

Uriel scoffs. Castiel gently inclines his head. 

Demons wear a body and cavort around, lewd and crass and so dark it burns out their eyes. Angels, though, angels walk softly, full of wonder or derision, depending on who they were Above. 

And Dean, Dean will never be ridden by Heaven or Hell. That is Sam’s mandate. 

_I wait_ , Uriel says, _for God’s command, and then I will destroy you. You are an abomination._

_Or maybe_ , Sam muses, stepping closer, leaning down slightly, and smirking when Uriel moves back. _Maybe I’m the culmination. The endgame._

Castiel shifts in place. If he had his wings, they’d be rustling. _Sam_ , he tries again, and Sam focuses on him, ignoring Uriel, looking past him like the speck of dust he is. _Dean is our last chance. If I can—_

_Possess him?_ Sam demands. _Rape him? No._

_There is a plan_ , Castiel explains, so earnest it hurts. He chose his vessel well; the man seems born to beg. _Everything has a reason, designed by God. You must have faith, Sam. Existence depends on your brother._

_No_ , Sam says very gently, swinging his gaze back to Uriel. _Dean will not be touched by anything that’s coming. Heaven or Hell, it doesn’t matter. Now, both of you, get out of my sight._

Castiel lowers his head, heaves a deep sigh. _As you wish_ , he murmurs, and is gone in a crack of light. 

But Uriel still stands there, eyes closed, and slowly a smile crosses his vessel’s face. _The command has come_ , he whispers, eyes opening. 

Sam sighs, rolls his eyes, and lifts his hand. 

Angels are different from demons. A demon is trying to groom him as the king, and an angel will relish killing him. 

Both are blind to truth. He is King, the endgame, and angels and demons have one more thing in common: they die so very easily. 

Sam cleans up the mess and goes back to his brother. 


	6. sclerenchyma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: sclerenchyma  
> Fandom: "Supernatural"  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. All quotes from episodes.  
> Warnings: spoilers for 4.2  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 525  
> Point of view: second  
> Notes: the title equals "A supportive tissue of vascular plants, consisting of thick-walled, usually lignified cells. Sclerenchyma cells normally die upon reaching maturity but continue to fulfill their structural purpose in the plant."

You gave your word—you remember that much. You begged to be saved, and it didn’t matter who did the saving.

You wanted Sam, but Sam never came, so you promised yourself away to _him_.

(I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition.)

He is cold, unfathomable as the ocean deep. He does not understand you or your words or your actions. He does not understand why you ask questions and demand answers because he’s always known.

(We have work for you.)

You gave your word in the Pit. Lilith already had your soul, but what was left of you went to whoever got you out.

You don’t remember Hell beyond yearning to be free. You don’t remember torment or despair, just a surety of being alone.

You are branded, now. Marked. You gave yourself to him and you always pay your debts.

(Lying’s a sin, you know.)

He is what he says he is. He is an angel. Like Gabriel. Like Michael. Like Lucifer, before he Fell.

There is a Devil and there is a God, and you are a pawn on their ancient, epic chessboard.

Why you? You’re worried you know the answer to that.

Is there a way out? Out of the web, out of the net, out of the bond of your words?

(Somebody. Anybody. Help me.)

You wanted Sammy, you remember that much. And Sammy never came.

But someone else did.

You’ve always been a soldier. The war hasn’t changed, only the battleground. And the stakes are so much higher.

There is a Devil. Lucifer, Satan, Morning Star, Prince of Darkness. Locked away from the world. And you must stop Lilith from setting him free.

You are not special, not gifted at anything but killing.

So why you? Of all the souls he could have saved, of all the people God could have chosen, why you?

(You know, Sammy is a chubby twelve-year-old. It’s Sam.)

He looks at you patiently, your savior. He is a warrior, has been for longer than you can imagine. And he waits for you to comprehend; he waits for you to be ready.

(Just tell me who you are!)

Your brother had a demon. You get an angel. Nothing about this is remotely fair.

Sammy has always believed. Even now, with undeniable proof branded into your skin, you don’t.

(We have work for you.)

Why you? There’s billions of people and you don’t know how many angels, just waiting to be picked by God. It’s an honor you’ve never wanted.

But you owe Castiel. He saved you from Hell, returned you to Sammy.

You look Castiel in the eye and say, “Dad told me once that I might have to kill Sam. You should know here and now that I never will. Not even if your God commands it.”

He waits a moment to respond, stepping closer. You stand your ground. “All in its due course, Dean. God will only give you a burden you can bear.”

(We have work for you.)

You couldn’t kill Sammy for Dad. You won’t do it for God.

You gave your word in Hell.

(I lied.)


	7. thicker than

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: thicker than  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun.  
> Warnings: spoilers for everything aired; future!AU  
> Pairings: none stated. Bring your own inferences  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 915  
> Point of view: third  
> Notes: semi-inspired by julorean

_the MorningStar is dead; long live the Morningstar_

.

Sam was born in Spring, early in the morning, just as the sun rose and spread light on the world. His was a quick and easy birth, and he charmed the nurses with his bright eyes.

Dean had been born in Winter, during a midnight snowstorm. He had been silent and so still the doctor thought him dead. His mother nearly died bringing him into the world.

.

Azazel always took the firstborn; in their blood lay the power, the skill, the potential he would hone. That night in the nursery, he had no idea Sam was second.

Two children with such strength… Azazel could not fathom it, and then it was too late.

.

Sam was a happy baby and an inquisitive boy; he grew into a sure and strong man.

Dean was solemn and stubborn, and always followed the orders he agreed with. He gave his love and loyalty to three people in the world, and one was dead. Then two were dead, and then Dean was the last Winchester standing.

.

Sam was frantic, that final year, searching, cajoling, demanding, sure he could find a way out for his brother.

Dean was resigned and didn’t get desperate ‘til the very end.

.

Sam was a leader, someone with a plan, someone with clear-cut goals and a way to get them.

Dean was a soldier, obedient and steady. He wanted someone to follow. He was a vassal in need of a king.

.

Sam died in Dean’s arms. Dean died before Sam’s eyes.

Dean traded himself to bring Sam back. Sam embraced the darkness inside him—and failed.

.

_the MorningStar is dead; long live the Morningstar_

.

Sam was born in Spring, the time of rebirth and hope. He entered life as the sun warmed the world.

Dean was born in Winter, the dark, frozen time.

.

Azazel scoured humanity for a king, and Sam had always been his favorite. Sam the leader, Sam the powerful, Sam the endgame and catalyst in one sack of flesh—but before he was anything else, he was a son. Before he was anything else, Sam had always been a brother. He spent his whole life following Dean. Dean went deeper than demon-blood dripped in his mouth. Dean went deeper than training and abilities and destiny. 

Dean went into Death and ripped Sam out, threw him back to Life.

.

Lilith tried to break them. Ruby tried to separate them. Azazel tried to kill one and claim the other.

Castiel said, If you don’t stop him, we will.

.

Sam toddled after Dean, ran after Dean, wanted Dean to chase him to California and say he could make it work.

Dean spent his life curled around Sam, protecting him, feeding him, watching over and loving him. Dean’s whole world was Sam.

.

Angels and demons and magic and destiny and blood. It always came back to blood, in the end—blood and love and pain. And death. So much death before the final curtain falls.

Azazel, were he not one of the first casualties, might find it amusing; he’d always been a master on the killing-field.

.

_the MorningStar is dead; long live the Morningstar_

.

Is it a lie, Castiel wonders, if you say the falsehood on orders from a just and righteous God? He cannot reach a conclusion. He cannot find a way to explain that would keep Dean’s trust.

Lucifer will walk free when the last Seal breaks. That is what he told Dean, the most fascinating of all God’s creations. It was his first lie.

.

They hunt together, bleed on each other, share silence and laughter. They have a past of gunpowder and iron, a future of blood and dust. They are brothers in flesh and brothers in spirit, and cannot be untwined from each other.

And they will damn all comers who dare to try.

.

Sam was a born leader, so magnetic he could lead men to a cliff and tell them to jump. He charmed and people loved.

Dean could charm for moments, and then people turned away.

.

Azazel plotted and planned and planted seeds in hundreds of children over a dozen generations. But his greatest triumph came when he found a little blonde spitfire and tracked her down to bleed in her son.

Sammy, he said over twenty years later. Sammy, my boy, you’re the champion.

.

They are beaten and bruised and bloodied, but they refuse to bow. They fight and kill, and they’ve both died. One’s been buried and burned in Hell; one can’t remember the other side.

They are dangerous and defiant and both sides fear them for what sings in their blood, forged by fire.

.

He will be king, Alistair thinks, eyeing the Winchester brothers. King of Hell, destroyer of Earth, pillager of Heaven. It was a mistake to give him such power.

Oh, yes, Alistair laughs, burning in holy light. You made a mistake, my brother, when you favored Sam and left my boy in the cold.

.

Sam died. Dean lived.

Dean died. Sam lived.

.

_the MorningStar is dead_

.

Castiel kneels. Ruby inclines her head before being shoved to her knees. Ananchel destroys Uriel and settles at her lord’s back.

Far away on Earth, Missouri Moseley laughs herself hoarse and spreads word of the end.

.

They are blood, spirits connected, two halves of one whole. They are two men bound deeper than death, brothers through fire and lead and consecrated iron.

They both are King.

.  
 _long live the Morningstar_


	8. the grave has but delayed them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: the grave has but delayed them  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Olga Levertoff  
> Warnings: future!fic AU. Maybe.  
> Pairings: fraternal wincest  
> Rating: PG13  
> Wordcount: 333  
> Point of view: third

It ends in the middle of nowhere, when Dean brings a gun to a superpower fight. Demons in their true, Hell forms are battling angels, flaming swords and broad wings, and all the psychic kids have answered the call in their blood, going against normal psychics, if that’s not an oxymoron.

And Dean just stands in the middle, face-to-face with Sam, Hell’s chosen general and his baby brother. Lucifer’s vessel. The End in human-skin.

Sammy. 

“Do you forgive me, Dean?” Sam purrs, hands by his side and weaponless, as much as he can be. “I bet you do. Always ready to turn the other cheek for little brother, right?”

Dean’s got a useless gun and two lifetimes of failure, and that’s not even counting all his years in Hell. 

“I do,” he answers. 

Sam smiles, liquid and slow, and raises a hand to touch his fingers to Dean’s lips. “Heaven’s not gonna win, Dean. Whose side are you on?” 

Dean flicks his gaze past Sam, to the roaring demons and smiting angels, to the newest wave of kids, all the ones who escaped Azazel’s demented game. He looks at the final battle of the greatest war since the first, and then he looks back at Sam. At Sammy. 

“The side I’ve always been on,” he says, tongue darting out to taste Sam’s skin. He doesn’t taste evil, not like the sulfuric air of Hell, smoke and blood and death, fear and pain and salty tears, and the chalky feel of bone. “Your side.” 

Eyes flaring sunbright, Sam’s smile widens. Dean is engulfed in heat that cocoons him gently before lashing out at the battle. Everything screams, Dean can hear it—and then there is only silence. When the blinding heat recedes back into Sam’s eyes, when the golden darkens into the familiar green, only Sam and Dean still stand. There isn’t even dust left of all the combatants. 

“Okay then,” Sam says. 

Dean lets the gun fall from his grip and follows Sam.


	9. The Killer Inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Killer Inside  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters. just for fun.  
> Warnings: AU for “Born Under A Bad Sign”  
> Pairings: nary a one   
> Rating: PG13  
> Wordcount: 1080  
> Point of view: third

Dean runs fill tilt into the door, praying Sam won’t have gone too far. A hunter is one thing—but Jo? She played a good game but wasn’t a threat. Not yet.

So when he looks and sees Sam bent over her, tied to a post, talking, he feels relief and a bit of anger, and then Sam turns around, holds that big-ass knife to Jo’s throat and tells Dean to do it, to kill him, because doesn’t Dean see what Sam’s becoming? 

And Dean looks from Sam, baby brother spiraling out of control and losing himself in madness and blood and death, to Jo, someone of no consequence, who doesn’t matter, and Sam is still yelling for him to do it.

Still holding the gun steady, pointed at Sam’s heart, Dean says, “Are you in there, Sammy?”

Jo’s eyes widen and her gaze darts from Sam to Dean. Sam smirks and pulls the knife away from Jo’s throat, tilts the blade at the floor. “Parts of me,” he answers. “But mainly—nope.”

Dean nods, considers. “You executed a man, little brother.”

“I know,” Sam laughs. “And it was _fun_.”

Sam’s eyes are bright and glittering, and Dean knows it’s too late. He’s failed to save Sam and the only thing left to do— _Save him, Dean, or kill him—_

Dean shifts and pulls the trigger, gaze never leaving Sam’s eyes. They fill with fear and shock and disbelief—but then, when Sam realizes he’s not the one slumping down with unseeing eyes, glee and unholy joy steal across his face.

“You just declared your side, big brother,” Sam says, letting his knife dangle loosely from his fingers. “And don’t think I’ll let you go back.”

Dean nods again, holstering his weapon. “I know.” 

With a quick, brutal movement, Sam savagely stabs his knife through Jo’s right eye and lets his hand fall. Dean doesn’t react and when Sam looks back his way, Dean smiles. Sam’s grin is a dark parody of itself and Dean feels a brief moment of regret for the boy Sammy used to be. But that boy is dead and gone, and Dean will never be able to get that boy back. All that’s left is the damaged man standing before him.

The man who steps toward him, eyes dark and demented, and asks, “What do you want, Dean?”

Dean’s smile is small and bitter. “Nothing you can give me.”

Sam smirks and keeps walking, stopping a hand’s-breadth from Dean. “Dad told you to kill me, Dean. You promised me you would.”

Dean nods. “I lied,” he answers. “I could never kill you, no matter what you did.”

Sam reaches out to touch Dean’s face and let his hand fall to rest on Dean’s shoulder. “Hunters’ll be after us, and normal people, too. And the demons, when they see I’m not doing what they want.”

Dean tilts his head. “Then what was this? And that hunter?”

Sam chuckles. “She hurt you, attacking you with Dad’s actions after we saved her ungrateful ass. And that idiot hunter was going to come after me in a few months, so I just jumped the gun a little.” 

“You’re not gonna join old Yellow-Eye?” Dean asks again, just for confirmation.

“No,” Sam assures him. “The bastard’s done too much for us to ever work together.”

Dean stares at Sam for a moment, thinking. “We should erase every trace you were here,” he finally says. “Then we continue on, hunting when a hunt comes our way.”

“Okay,” Sam decides with a small nod. “Let’s do it.”

They leave Jo tied to the post and hose her down with water. “You hate me for changing, don’t you?” Sam asks as he wipes off the bar.

“No,” Dean replies, grabbing all the bottles and shattering them on the floor, then fills a pitcher with water and tosses it over the pieces. “I could never hate you, Sammy.” 

Sam goes to fetch the Impala from where he’d stashed her while Dean lights an old rag on fire. He drops it on the floor by Jo and quickly hurries from the building. Sam pulls up a second later, about a dozen yards away, and Dean brushes away his tracks as he walks to the car.

“So,” Sam says when Dean’s in the car, “I was thinking.”

“Oh, I bet that hurt,” Dean cuts in, simply because they both know it’s a remark he should make.

“If everyone already believes we’re thieves and killers and insane, why don’t we go on a spree?” Sam doesn’t take his eyes off the road and Dean looks behind him, at the fire.

“Because the world isn’t the same it used to be,” Dean replies.

“No,” Sam agrees. “It’s not.” He flicks Dean a glance. “We’re already outlaws, wanted dead or alive. And the way Dad raised us—what else can we do? We’ll never have normality, and neither of us would know what do with it. We can still hunt, and we already steal, anyway.”

Dean turns slightly, looks silently at Sam for a few minutes, weighing and judging and remembering. When he speaks, he says, “There’s a guy I know about fifty miles south. He owes me a couple hundred dollars.”

Sam grins and turns Metallica up louder, sings along. Dean can only wonder where this’ll end—or how. Because some hunters already know about Sam and the Feds know about Dean, and Ellen knows Sam was missing.

“We need to make a stop by the Roadhouse soon,” Dean says, going against everything he used to be. “Got some loose ends there.” 

He feels Sam’s gaze, assessing him and considering him, and then Sam tells him, “I’ll let you walk away.”

Dean stares out his window and replies, “I’m where I want to be, Sam.” 

“Roadhouse before or after guy?” Sam asks and Dean says, “After. It’ll be a few days before Ellen learns Jo’s dead.”

Sam’s laughter is sudden and more than slightly unhinged, and Dean knows there will never be another chance. He’s lost all opportunity to follow Dad’s order, to keep that thrice-damned promise to Sam.

And Dean turns his back on who he used to be, on what he used to believe, and knows that this new road can only end badly—but he can’t do anything else. He can’t kill Sam, or betray him. All he can do is stand beside Sammy and do his damnedest to keep Sammy alive.


	10. where no man’s name is written yet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: where no man’s name is written yet  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Gilgamesh.   
> Warnings: spoilers for up to 4.16  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 465  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: super!special!Sammy

“I didn’t win,” Sam says. “I died.”

“Yeah,” the demon laughs. “But you killed the champion.” 

.

It doesn’t hurt anymore. Exorcising a demon, killing a demon—all the same, and pain-free. Easy. Satisfying in a way nothing else has ever been.

Castiel stares at him with wide eyes. Dean is unconscious on the floor, blood still dripping from… everywhere, it seems like. 

“Can you heal him?” Sam asks quietly, going to his brother, reassuring himself in Dean’s gasping breath.

“I cannot,” Castiel answers, actually sounding regretful. 

“Then get the fuck out,” Sam commands. 

With one lingering look at Dean, Castiel goes. 

.

He can’t turn it off. A part of him doesn’t want to.

 _Maybe this is always where things were headed,_ he ponders, waiting for Dean to wake up. _And maybe it doesn’t matter anymore._

It is what it is. _He_ is. Demons running scared, angels warily watching him, the bastard whose name Dean whimpered in sleep and never mentioned awake dead. 

“’am,” Dean mumbles, tongue clumsy and voice thick. 

“I’m here,” he answers, fingers barely pressed against Dean’s wrist. “I’m fine.” 

Dean slips back under and Sam doesn’t go get the doctor. He just sits there, listening to the rasp of the machines, thumb over Dean’s pulse.

.

 _I’m still me,_ Sam wants to say, when they don’t talk about it. _It’s always been there. I just didn’t know how to call on it. Control it._

They should talk about it. Sam should tell Dean everything. Sam should know whatever Dean does, that he begs at night for Dad to forgive him. They should air everything for real, so that they can move past it. Become who they were before Hell. 

They don’t. Secrets and lies, angels and demons, Lilith and Alistair’s memory and Azazel’s blood. 

And Sam _is_. Regretful and powerful and so damn tired of being chosen and fated and whatever else both sides have planned. 

.

Dean is leaning on the hood of the car, face turned up to the sun, eyes closed, and he looks so young. Sam watches, weighing and measuring, determining how things can go now.

The demons either want to kill him or worship him, depending on the day. The angels want him on their side or they want him dead, depending on the hour.

And Dean just wants his little brother back, the one he sold himself to Lilith for. 

That boy is dead. Sammy burned to ashes in Hell, lit aflame by Dean’s screams. Sam remains, though. Sam, the one who killed Azazel’s champion. 

_I’m still me_ , Sam wants to tell him. _Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything, Dean._

He’ll win this war and let Dean live out his days however he wants. And it doesn’t matter who gets in the way.


	11. steel’s kiss and satin’s touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: steel’s kiss and satin’s touch  
> Fandom: “Supernatural”  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun.  
> Warnings: spoilers for “Lazarus Rising”; AU during season 4  
> Pairings: none  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 730  
> Point of view: second

He doesn’t remember Hell. He remembers dying, the pain and the fear. He remembers waking in a box beneath half a foot of dirt. But what came in-between—a blank.

You’re thankful for that.

.  
 _Tell us, Lord_ , your demons whisper. _What next?_

 _Find me Lilith_ , you command. You’ve been saying the same thing for three months, ever since you embraced Azazel’s curse.

They hurry away, like they have every night, but another approaches you. Ruby in her newest body hovers at your shoulder.

 _Leave us,_ you tell her. _Go make sure Dean is safe._

With a pout, she goes. You watch as the stranger comes ever closer, and then you realize it is no stranger at all.

.

No demon would bargain with you. The devil’s gate wouldn’t open. You had power and will, anger and despair, but none of it mattered. Nothing worked, and Dean’s body rotted in the ground because you refused to burn him.

 _You are Samuel_ , a deep voice said two months after. _Samuel, he who is Azazel’s chosen._

 _I am_ , you responded, raising your head from a tablet older than Christianity.

A shadow manifested before you. _You seek to reclaim your brother from the Pit._

 _I do_ , you said. _And I will_.

 _If you swear to aid me in a single endeavor, Samuel_ , the shadow promised, _I will return your brother to his body, healed and whole, with no memory of what he suffered Below._

 _Who are you?_ you demanded, hope causing you to be curt.

_My name is unimportant. I can do what I say._

You’d tried everything else and nothing worked. So you agreed.

.

 _I kept my word, Samuel_ , the shadow says.

 _Yes_ , you reply. _So you have. What do you ask in return? What endeavor do you want my help with?_

 _I have been a warrior for longer than this planet has existed, Samuel. Make me a general in your army._ The shadow coalesces into a masculine form. _I am weary of the politics that plague Above. I tire of trumpets and pearls._

You stare at him, the shadow who gave you back your brother. _You told Dean the Lord had work for him._

_So you do, Samuel._

You throw back your head in a laugh. _Very well, Castiel_ , you say. _Destroy Ruby for me and you can take her place._

He nods and fades away.

.

 _Tell us, Lord_ , your demons whisper, begging at your feet. _What next?_

 _Seek out those receptive to our cause,_ you say. _No matter what title they have or what form they wear._ You watch them stream away, filling the sky with black wings only you can see.

 _And I, Lord?_ Castiel asks, standing at your left.

 _Go to Dean,_ you command. _Watch over him, keep him safe. Lilith still wants him._

He nods and goes.

.

Alone, you sink to the ground, loosening your muscles. Closing your eyes, you center yourself.  
Lilith is still free and that cannot be allowed. Ruby told you that you wouldn’t be able to track her, but Castiel said you could.

 _Lilith was one of the first of His creations,_ Castiel murmured, watching Dean watch you, invisible to all mortal eyes. _That charlatan whose place I took could never track her, and so wouldn’t know you could._

Dean’s gaze flicked to Castiel in the corner, then shook himself and went back to pretending to watch Oprah.

 _Your brother is special, Lord_ , Castiel said.

 _I know,_ you replied. _And until the war actually starts, you will keep him safe._

 _As you will it_ , he said, and you knew it was good.

.

You hunt Lilith, placate Dean, avoid Bobby, and command a force of demons. Slowly, steadily, that force grows, swelled by vampires and werewolves, ghouls and rakshasas—everything you’ve ever hunted and more.

It is no wonder when a handful of angels join you. Castiel greets them by name.

Your mark is on them all.

.

A year to the day Castiel gave you back Dean, four of your fallen bring you Lilith. She is diminished in both presence and power, and before your army, you completely destroy her.

They all roar and howl, and the war will soon begin.

.

 _Tell us, Lord_ , your acolytes and soldiers whisper. _What next?_

Your gaze turns skyward and you smile.

On your left, Castiel’s wings flare in preparation.

On your right, Dean says, _Christ is mine_.


End file.
